


Footsteps of Angels

by megankent



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Old West
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megankent/pseuds/megankent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of a gunfight gone wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Footsteps of Angels

**Author's Note:**

> The first part was for me. The rest was for Charlotte. And the blame, of course, is all mine. Thanks to the Sandy, for invaluable editing assistance. The title is from a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Chris waited through the stretched silence for the next shot. Seconds passed. A minute. Two. He checked the two bandits in his line of sight, but they were down and still. One over near JD was groaning--at least he'd stopped screaming for his momma--and Buck came out from behind the livery pushing two disarmed men in front of him. Slowly the others called out, Vin from the roof of the hardware store, Ezra from behind the batwing doors of the saloon. Josiah and Nathan stepped out of two alleys opposite, each giving a casual wave. Roll call, everyone present and accounted for.

Easing up from behind the table he'd dumped on its side, Chris used his hat to brush splinters of glass from his shoulders, and shook the back of his coat, listening to them rain down on the soft wood of the boardwalk.

Nathan went to check the outlaws who'd been shot, and Chris crossed the street to the jail, opening up the cells to accommodate Buck's prisoners. One was bleeding from a crease on his neck, but it didn't look too serious. The other was stumbling unevenly, but not from any injury Chris could see. He held open the iron door, and for once the prisoners didn't seem inclined to argue their fate.

"Ohmigod! Nathan, Chris! Come quick!" JD's voice rose in sharp panic, cutting through the normal murmur of the town trying to set itself to rights after mayhem.

Buck looked up to meet his gaze, concern shading into fear, and shoved the stumbling outlaw into the cell. Slamming the door shut with a clang, Chris made for the door, hitting a full run as he vaulted from the boardwalk into the street. He felt Buck's long strides catch up and pace him, so that they rounded the corner into the alley in step.

The passage was narrow, used mainly for storage and back access to both Digger Dan's and the hardware store. Boxes and barrels lined both sides, and a pile of furniture, broken beyond all repair in past brawls, rotted in the shadows at the far end. But at the near side, under the eaves of Watson's Hardware, the rest of his men were gathered tightly. Nathan knelt with his back to the street. No one spoke.

The rest of his men, save one.

Feeling the solid presence of Buck Wilmington at his shoulder, Chris pressed forward, coming up between Ezra and Josiah, to see what he knew, with sudden surety, he never wanted to see.

"Aw, hell." Buck said it for him; Chris didn't have the breath for words.

Vin had fallen.

There was no mistaking the grotesque twist of his body, or the terrifying stillness of his limbs. Legs bent in ways nature never intended, one arm crooked up under his body, the other flung wide as if straining to reach the Winchester just out of reach. But there was no strain to Vin now. No movement other than the jerky motion of breath to indicate that he still lived.

Slowly, almost afraid to disturb the stillness, Chris knelt down, reaching out a hand to cup Vin's face, to draw his eyes back, to draw him back. "Hey, pard," Chris heard his voice waver, and struggled to firm it. "You chose a hell of a time to take a break." His eyes were burning, but Chris forced a smile.

Vin's eyes wandered, finally fixing on Chris's gaze. "Hey, cowboy," he whispered harshly. "Virg's got a few loose shingles. Needs fixin'." Chris glanced up at the roof in need of repair, then back down to the irreparable result.

"You're not looking so good here, Tanner." It was less than the truth, and more than Chris wanted to admit. But what the hell could you say to a man who--

"Yeah, it don't--" Vin coughed sharply, setting a trail of blood trickling down his chin. "Don't even hurt." He sounded amazed, almost childlike in wonder. "Don't you reckon it ought to hurt, Chris?"

Oh, god. He couldn't do this. He couldn't fucking face this loss. Not like this. Reaching out, Chris bent to gather Vin up, to hold him away from death, to anchor him here somehow, some way.

Strong hands stopped him, and he felt an almost feral growl vibrate in his chest.

"No, Chris," Nathan's voice was infinitely sad, infinitely gentle. "You can't." As if leading a blind man, and hell, maybe he was blind...or maybe it would be better if he were... Nathan drew his hand down to Vin's left side, where a broken barrel stave poked obscenely through his shirt. Through his skin. Painted bright red with Vin's blood, the jagged sliver of wood near sparkled in the midday sun. Chris felt sick.

Sitting back on his heels, Chris contented himself with brushing the hair out of Vin's eyes. His lips were moving near silently, and Chris leaned down closer to catch the words. They were nonsense, or perhaps some Indian dialect. Maybe a chant, seemingly rhythmic though the meter felt oddly stilted.

"Vin?" Oh, god, Vin. Don't do this. Chris clutched Vin's outstretched hand, its cool limpness a ghastly premonition. "Vin?" Vin didn't respond, but the unintelligible sing-song continued. His eyes, while open, seemed already fixed on another plane.

In time--seconds or minutes--Vin fell silent, though his breathing became more labored, until Chris thought it ought to be echoing in the close space of the alley. Someone behind him was crying, the muffled sobs seeming miles away from the tragedy in front of him.

It was agonizing to watch. To hear. To witness. Chris wondered, suddenly, if it mightn't be kinder to all of them if he just pulled out his Colt and pumped a slug into Vin's brain. But no matter how painful, he couldn't imagine letting go of Vin's life one second before he had to.

In the end, there wasn't any struggle, any strain. Just one breath that shuddered out of Vin Tanner, and an endless, agonizing wait for the next one that never came. The slow slackening of muscles left Vin's mouth gaped open, teeth and lips painted garish red with blood. A sudden chill ran down Chris's spine, like the touch of a soul departing this world.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven..."

Chris sat back heavily, coming up against a warm, bony wall of flesh, so familiar, so alive.

Turning, searching frantically for connection or comfort or he knew not what, Chris pressed his face into the warm, soft fabric of Buck's shirt, clinging desperately to his solidity, feeling Buck's arms wrap tightly around him, shutting out sound and vision alike. All he could feel was Buck. All he could smell was that damn cologne, and the musky-sweaty odor of the man, so rich and full Chris could almost taste it.

Tears came then, and Chris was grateful that Buck was there to hide him and hold him, to protect him from too-knowing eyes. He clenched his teeth, unwilling to give voice to the pain or the fear, or his desperate need. A large hand brushed his hat back to hang by its stampede strap, and carded through his hair. Chris grabbed him even tighter, holding on hard until the comfort was too much to take, and he thought his skin might split under the pressure of... Of something too large for words, too violent for this simple human contact.

Mopping his wet face against Buck's belly, Chris pressed to standing on shaky legs. One glance at where Nathan and Josiah still struggled to free Vin--Vin's body--was enough to firm his stance and his resolve. There was no way to fix this, but by damn he could give it his best shot. Not looking left or right, and pointedly avoiding Buck's concerned gaze, Chris stalked toward the side door of the saloon.

There was no mistaking the shift. One moment Chris was as shocked as the rest of them, his heart torn out by Vin's sudden, senseless passing. And the next, he was in motion, in search of the one thing he knew to dull that burning pain. Buck didn't even try to hold him, didn't follow either. He would go no further than the nearest cheap bottle of whiskey.

Josiah prayed all through their efforts, and Buck stepped forward to lend a hand. Vin was awkward to lift, as limp and loose as water. Still-warm blood flowed sluggishly from the gaping wound, and Buck steeled himself not to pull away. Between the three of them they managed to carry him. JD gathered up the battered old cavalry hat and Vin's Winchester, and followed closely. Ezra stood as if frozen to the spot, and Buck didn't really have the time or energy to figure him out.

Townspeople stared and whispered behind their hands as they carried Vin up to the undertakers. No one followed; no one offered to help. And Buck couldn't decide if he was relieved or disgusted.

When everything that needed to be done was done, and decisions that he'd hoped never to make again made, they all washed up in the saloon, like flotsam in the bend of a river, tangled and seemingly random and without purpose. They gathered near Chris but not with him, and more than once Buck had to divert well-meaning commiseration. The last thing they needed was another funeral.

The space around Chris grew wider and quieter as the evening went on, until the only people left in the bar were determined drunks who didn't mind the ominous quiet--as long as there was alcohol to be had--and the remains of the gang that up until a few hours ago had been the Magnificent Seven.

Buck tipped back his glass and reached for the bottle at in the center of the table. Oh, lord, what would they do without Vin? He had lost a lot of friends in his life, and pretty much everyone he'd ever called family. Everyone but Chris. And then Chris had brought him Vin, and from there the others, and he'd been foolish enough to grow himself a whole new family to lose. Damn the man.

Buck couldn't really stay angry at Chris, though. Not when he was in so much pain. He'd barely spoken a word since Vin had--since the alley. Hadn't, unless you counted calls for more drink, or the vicious tongue-lashing he'd given Mary Travis a couple of hours back. She'd slipped in while Buck was up at the bar, or he'd have stopped her. Before anyone saw the risk, she'd dropped down next to Chris, tried to empathize, and had all unaware, insinuated herself between Chris and his bottle. Moving in sudden concert, Buck and Josiah acted. Buck nearly had to lift Chris up and spin him away to halt his angry attack, but all the strain had drained away under his hands, once Mary was gone and the liquor restored. Josiah escorted Mary out in tears, though Buck wondered uncharitably whether they were for Vin's loss or Chris's. With a heavy sigh, he slid the bottle back into Chris's reach.

An hour later, Chris was almost blind drunk. He'd long ago forsaken a glass, and now was barely able to align the bottle to his mouth. Pouring a liberal amount down the front of his shirt didn't stop his efforts to anesthetize himself.

"All right, stud." Buck easily slid the bottle out of Chris's clumsy fingers. No one would mistake the man for a deadly shootist tonight. "You're done."

Chris Larabee wasn't going to take that sitting down. He surged upward, knocking his chair over backward and almost tripping over his own boots on his way to the bottle that Buck held high out of his reach.

"Give!" Chris pawed at him, and Buck pushed him back, handing the bottle off to Nathan. JD, pitifully drunk himself, looked more than a little frightened, but he hadn't seen Chris like this the dozens of times Buck had over the last five years. Wilmington waited, eyeing the unsteady form, and then ducking easily as the telegraphed roundhouse floated up toward where his head had been.

Stepping forward, he folded Chris over his shoulder, standing easily under the weight. "Last call, pard. Time for bed." The others nodded; JD reached out tentatively, as if to rest a hand on his arm but didn't follow through, then Buck was pushing through the doors, out into the chill evening air. His steps rang heavily on the boardwalk, up the exterior stairs of the boarding house, and echoed down the hallway to Chris's room.

Bending down, Buck propped Chris against the wall, leaning one shoulder into his chest to keep him nearly upright as he felt through his pockets for the key. Chris was too drunk to be ticklish--or embarrassed--he didn't even flinch when Buck's hands slid into the front of his trousers. Buck found the key, finally, maneuvered the door open and dragged Chris through, dropping him heavily on the bed.

There was just enough light filtering in for him to lay hands on the lamp and box of matches. Buck struck the match on his boot and lit the wick, cranking it up enough to cast light across the bed and its occupant. Christ, he looked ill, skin a pallid green and eyes bloodshot. He seemed to be drifting though. Get some sleep, Chris, he wished silently, easing off Chris's gun belt and boots. He pulled up the room's only chair and propped his feet up on the end of the bed, settling in for what promised to be a long night.

Chris muttered in his stupor, the soft pleading so unlike his hard-edged image that Buck smiled, reaching out to stroke the hank of hair back from Chris's forehead. "Guess we haven't come as far as we thought, eh, stud?" He spoke softly out of habit, but experience told him that Chris was beyond hearing. He'd had more than his share of long conversations with a passed-out audience. And he wondered why things never changed.

"Aw hell, Chris," Buck felt his own pain, submerged these last few hours, well up in his chest, tightening his breathing, jerking at his throat. "You think it's all about you, pard. You think you're the only one who lost family today? Vin was as much my friend as yours, and don't you forget it." Chris's muttering quieted, as if he were listening. In Buck's dreams. Chris had the easy job: getting pickled and picking fights. Buck was the one who'd held JD while he cried, dealt with Sam Snetton at the undertakers and sent someone out to break the news to old Nettie Wells that she'd lost another son. He wished he could run as easy as Chris could, wished sometimes that he could just get on his horse and outride his troubles. But then there'd be nobody to pick up the pieces...

Chris lost his mind because he knew he could, because the worst thing that would happen was he'd wake up hung over and beat up in some alley. And it scared Buck white that when Chris was like this, his idea of best was he wouldn't wake up at all. Either way, Buck Wilmington would pick up the pieces, because that's what he did, who he was. And god help him, he couldn't seem to stop himself from picking up after him--hell, picking him up--time and time again.

"Sarah wouldn't want this for you, you know." It was an old argument. He'd stopped having it while Chris was awake, because it only seemed to drive the man crazier than he already was. But at the same time he couldn't leave it alone, so he saved it for these midnight monologues. "Vin wouldn't, either. Y'know. " The quiet friendship that had grown up between Chris and Vin was different, so unlike the boisterous brotherhood he'd always shared with Chris that Buck had barely recognized the true state of affairs. Chris had let himself care about someone again, had let a friend get in under his defenses, and yesterday Buck would have said that was a good thing. Today... Damn, he'd bet a month's pay Chris hadn't had a clue, before Vin had breathed his last. Oh, yeah. Chris would be beating himself over that lapse for a long time to come. So like the man, to take something good, and turn it to pain. A memory of Vin and Chris sharing a silent smile just yesterday, watching as JD alternately pursued and avoided Casey, brought tears to his eyes.

"Oh, lord, Vin." If he was going to talk to the unconscious, he might as well talk to the dead, as well. "We're gonna miss you something fierce. All of us."

Sobs took him then, shaking his shoulders, stealing his breath. He buried his face in both hands and gave in to it for just a minute, let it wash over and through him. Here they were, both of them nearly consumed by the same pain, just like before, and yet he knew Chris would never share the pain with him. Stubborn, pigheaded and selfish--acting like his was the only grief in the world. Buck sighed heavily as the wave ebbed.

Any sane man would have walked away from Larabee years ago, or let him go when Chris had finally come to his senses and fled from what they'd done. What they'd become. But no one ever accused him of having a lick of sense where Chris was concerned. Sarah least of all.

He'd damn near felt her ghost at his side the first night that friendly comfort had turned to something more between them. He'd needed that blessing more than he could say. She and Adam had been in the ground barely a week, and Chris hadn't seen the light of day or the outside of a whiskey bottle since the end of the funeral. Hell, it hadn't been that different from tonight. He'd hauled Chris out of the saloon, out of town, and into an abandoned barn. Chris had been combative, more coordinated than he'd been tonight. But then they'd both been a lot younger back then.

He'd dumped Chris ass-down into a pile of hay, and held him there while Chris tried his best to escape or beat the crap out of Buck, or both at the same time. When he'd finally given in, Chris was twined more tightly around Buck than the sweet filly he'd bedded the night before. And when Chris's mouth suddenly opened, sliding upward along the column of Buck's neck, he'd nearly jumped out of his skin.

But some sense of peace had soothed Buck, the warm scent of horses and honeysuckle evoking the home they'd shared far too briefly. To stop himself searching for her in some dark corner, he looked to Chris's desperate, despairing eyes. Calm, and the love he'd always felt for Chris, had welled up, so that it seemed the most natural thing in the world to share comfort and pleasure with him. To love him completely.

Chris never mentioned it. Not in the morning, so Buck didn't bring it up either. Not the next night when he was drunk again, but hot and eager under Buck's hands. Not any night for the next month, when they did things Buck had heard of, things he'd done with women, but never thought to try with another man.

And Chris didn't mention leaving, either. Buck just woke up one morning to find the bed empty, Chris's gear and his horse gone. Only the scent of tobacco, sweat and semen lingered to show he'd ever been there.

Not really. Chris Larabee left his mark wherever he went. He was a man people noticed, whether to respect him, fear him, or love him. He'd certainly made his mark on Four Corners, and on a bunch of men who'd never amounted to much on their own, but together had done something good, something right for once. "Is that all done and gone now?" he asked the sleeping man.

Chris didn't answer, of course. But the uneasy rocking of his head and the suddenly harsh turn of his breathing warned Buck to grab for the chamber pot, and turn Chris over the side of the bed before he choked in his own vomit.

"Ain't nothing like holding a friend's head while he pukes." Shuddering rocked Chris's lean body from head to toe, as his guts rejected a goodly portion of the red-eye he'd guzzled. Lord, sometimes Buck wondered why he bothered. But most days there was no wondering about it. There was just Chris, and Chris needing him, sometimes so much that the only way he could stand it was to drive Buck away.

He turned his head, careful to breathe through his mouth, massaging gently at the muscles in Chris's back. Grateful that the spasms seemed to have run their course.

  
"C'mon, stud, sit on up here." Chris wavered a bit, but managed to balance upright on the edge of the bed as Buck worked his arms out of the stained shirt, opening the front of Chris's trousers to release that tight hold. "Jeez, Chris, you don't do nothing halfway, do you?" The fabric stank like as Chris's breath, of harsh liquor and vomit, and Buck threw it into the far corner of the room.

"You steady there?" He released Chris, checking that he wasn't going to slide to the floor, then stepped over to the bureau for the washbasin and pitcher. "Here you go." He held the glass, gently diverting Chris's shaking hands, tilting it up until Chris had to open up or be drenched. Chris gulped, spat into the pot, and then rinsed and spat again. Pulling the glass away with a grunt, Chris tipped it back, drinking so quickly he choked a moment, then swallowing again until the glass was empty.

"You're not looking so handsome there, pard. You want a hand?" Chris looked almost confused, but he didn't fight as Buck wet a towel, using it to wipe away the sweat and stink from Chris's face and throat. Wetting it again, he brushed back Chris's lank hair, then wiped gently at the red-rimmed eyes. "It's okay," he murmured, seeing tears swimming there that Chris was obviously fighting back. "Just you and me here. Nothing to worry about."

Chris rubbed furiously at the tears, until Buck eased the hands away. "C'mon, don't do that." He pulled Chris in close then, holding him as he had earlier, feeling the desperate shaking. Chris's arms came up around him, too, holding desperately.

Warm and strong, the feeling of Buck's arms around him seemed to leach some of the pulsing agony away, leaving a stillness born of emptiness, loss. The gentle brush of Buck's chin along his face, his warm breath by Chris's ear, they seemed part of another world, a place Chris both longed and feared to enter. He both needed it and hated needing it, and had since the very first touch, him blind drunk and half out of his mind with grief.

"Please, Buck," Chris muttered, wanting Buck to know, to understand what he wanted--needed--without further explanation. This man--his brother in all but blood--was his crutch, his solid support when the world had crumbled around him: essential when Chris needed him, cast aside when he'd regained his footing. But Chris felt lost now, stumbling toward a precipice, with only one man's strength to keep him from falling.

He looked up, saw both pain and hunger reflected in Buck's eyes, and knew that he was more than a little to blame for the agony there. "I'm sorry," he offered, bringing his hands up to frame Buck's face, brushing one thumb across the bushy mustache. He would have said more, if he could only find the words: thanks, apology, a love so deep yet unspoken and unacknowledged.

Buck didn't give him the chance, leaning down, fixing on Chris's mouth, teasing between his lips to delve inside. Chris pulled him closer, sinking his hands into thick hair, pressing harder, upward into Buck's mouth, against his chest, pushing and twisting until Buck sprawled backward across Chris's bed. He followed, not willing yet to part, his hands stroking down from Buck's hair to his shoulders, holding him still while delving deeper into the heat of Buck's mouth.

Suddenly, urgently, he couldn't bear to be separated from this man by anything. Fumbling, he worked at the buttons on Buck's shirt, his fly, the stiff leather of his gunbelt. He needed the heat and the warmth and the strength closer, blanketing him, containing him. Frustrated, he pulled harder, heard fabric tear, and felt the warm vibration of Buck's chuckle under his hands.

  
"Hold hard there, stud." Buck's hands came up, covered his, and eased the shirt away. Chris immediately began stroking the newly revealed skin, sun-kissed and freckled, the soft brush of hair under his fingertips a forbidden thrill. "Just wait a minute." Buck's hands were holding his again, and Chris pulled away, annoyed and confused, until he realized Buck was working his own shirt off. The chill on his back was a sharp contrast to the heat rising between them, and Chris leaned forward, pressing against the warm expanse of Buck's chest, luxuriating in the vibrant life under him.

He latched on to the pulse in Buck's neck, sucking at it hungrily, then moved onto the shell of his ear. That sent a delightful thrill through both of them, as Chris alternately licked and chewed at the sensitive skin there. Arching closer, anchoring himself on Buck's broad shoulders, Chris rocked his hips forward, driving his groin against Buck's hip, sliding closer, until the iron bar of his cock rubbed persuasively against Buck, still separated by too many clothes. Chris whimpered.

"All right," Buck soothed, his big hands easing them apart again, though it was the last thing Chris wanted. "Hang on, stud, we'll get there." Chris rolled aside, panting, staring up into the shadows at the ceiling, letting Buck work his pants and underwear down and away, leaving him naked to the chill air and Buck's heated gaze. In that moment of stillness, the stare caught him, drew him in, locking his attention when Buck stepped back and away.

While he watched, Buck stripped quickly, every line of muscle endearingly familiar to Chris, every scar a terrifying reminder of their fragility.

In the face of that bounty, "Please..." was all he managed to gasp. But apparently it was enough. Buck climbed over him, onto him, wrapping him inside that strength and love until he was the world: every sound Chris could hear, his skin’s every sensation, the very air he breathed. "Yess..." he hissed, bringing his arms up, around, pulling him closer, harder, trying to touch him everywhere at once, his hands sliding up to his shoulders, down to his ass.

"Shhh," Buck soothed, nosing into Chris's hair, speaking softly right into his ear, as if the message might go astray if it traveled too far. "It's okay, Chris. I'm here."

As if Chris could ever doubt it, though he'd tried often enough, pushed Buck away as firmly as he now clung to him. God, he was an idiot. "Buck-- I'm--"

"Shh." And then Buck stifled him with a deep kiss, his tongue exploring Chris's mouth as his hands mapped down to his hips, holding them so now Buck was the one rocking, rubbing.

Yes, Chris would have gasped, if he'd had the breath. Please. Buck! Buck must have heard, have known, because he rocked back, and Chris heard the fumbling, the rattling as he hauled out the tiny drawer on the nightstand, fumbled through the contents, and came up waving the flat tin of grease that worked equally well for softening Chris's gunbelt and easing his self-abuse.

Chris watched, near hypnotized as Buck dipped his fingers in, bringing up a dollop of the stuff to smooth along his straining cock. Chris whimpered, his hands twitching up from the bed, wanting to be the one stroking Buck's shaft. Even as he imagined the feel of that throbbing flesh in his hands, he dreamt of feeling it elsewhere. "Please," Chris begged, no pride left. "Please, Buck."

"Don't worry, pard. I gotcha." Buck smiled down easily, his hands sliding up under Chris's ass, fingers searching inward, spreading him, slicking him. Chris arched, pressing back, driving himself on to those fingers, gasping at the sudden, sharp sensation. "Hey!" Buck's voice went harsh, and his fingers still. "Hold on there, stud. We'll get you handled. Just trust old Buck, okay?"

It went against every need, every instinct, to hold still, to entrust his pleasure and his release to another. But this wasn't just anyone, and Chris fought to relax, to wait, to have faith in Buck, who'd never let him down. Well, never any time it really mattered. And never at all when it came to this.

"Yeah," Chris grunted and forced himself still, panting under the effort. "But get on with it!"

Buck laughed, and Chris thought it had been forever since he'd heard such an easy, happy sound. And then, while he was still reveling in it, Buck bent him up and spread him wide, easing in slowly and carefully, holding him still when Chris fought for quicker, deeper entrance. Chris wrapped his legs around, digging his heels into Buck's ass, but Buck wouldn't be moved.

Slowly, agonizingly, he worked his way deeper, until Chris was sure he would split wide open under the pressure, or spontaneously combust. Buck talked all the way through, though Chris hadn't a clue what he was saying. He stroked and petted, too, his hands never falling still. But the only thing Chris could feel was the burning heat of Buck's dick, buried to the root, each pulse a throbbing reminder of the life that he exuded with every breath, every word, every action. If Chris was death personified, then Buck was surely life. And it was no wonder they were paired, in spite of any momentary needs or wants.

"Hey," Buck waited, unmoving, for Chris to meet his gaze. "I've got you, Chris," he said seriously, and the words seemed to echo between them, almost a promise. A promise he'd beg Buck for, if only he had a voice, if only it were possible for anyone to keep. Please, don't leave me. Never make me feel like I felt today, like I've felt for the last four years.

"Oh, god, Buck..." Don't die.

He felt the silent tears burn and flow, even as Buck finally gave up his terrible stillness and began a steady, rhythmic thrusting.

"Oh, god. Oh, Buck. Oh, god."

Each rocking movement, alternately separating sweaty skin and slapping it back together, lit up Chris's nerves like black powder. Each accompanying grunt from Buck sounded sweeter than a love poem.

And then when Chris's body, already wound tighter and driven higher than he would have ever dreamed possible, trembled on the very edge of ecstasy, Buck pulled him up, impaling him deeper still, clutching him close so that Buck's heartbeat gave the rhythm, Buck's ragged breath beside his ear the accompaniment, and a powerful symphony rolled and shook through him, stretching, building unstoppably, until all thought, all strength, nearly all his breath was gone.

Gasping in the aftermath, Chris buried his face, still soaked with both tears and sweat, into Buck's neck, nuzzling at the racing of his pulse. At the evidence of his life.

Buck was--amazingly--still hard, still clinging to the edge of control, his body vibrating on the very edge of climax. His eyes, a deeper blue that Chris had ever seen on man or woman, shone both with passion and an edge of sorrow. He wondered, momentarily, how much of that he was the cause of. More than his fair share, certainly.

Hiking himself up a bit with arms and legs almost limp from passion, he opened Buck's mouth with his tongue, tasting the furnace-like heat, stroking the depths, sucking desperately at Buck's powerful tongue. It was enough to draw out a groan, to weaken Buck's legs, to bring him down and Chris down with him: Chris on his back and Buck on top of him, pressing the air from his lungs on one long sigh. Buck's orgasm was as powerful as the man, driving into Chris, rocking the bed frame back against the wall, drawing a low, guttural moan from him as it finally crested and eased.

In time--seconds or minutes--they fell quiet; exhaustion dragged at Chris's limbs, clouded his mind. Buck shifted enough to ease the constriction on Chris's chest and not an inch further. Chris relaxed under the comforting weight, and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

It wouldn’t have taken a tracker the caliber of Vin Tanner to trail Chris. Don followed the new-worn path behind Chris's cabin, over the ridge and down into the south-facing hollow where they'd buried Vin. Late afternoon sun filtered through the branches, setting off the newly turned earth from the spring-green grasses. Buck wasn't surprised to find Chris there, back propped against the old scrub oak, his head about even with the rough carving that read simply "Vin Tanner." No dates, no words, but the name that had been Vin's most treasured possession. He had that ratty old poncho from Josiah wrapped around his shoulders and his hat pulled low over his eyes. Buck thought he might have heard a whisper of a harmonica note, but if so, it was silent now.

"Chris?" he called quietly, though Chris must have heard him minutes ago. "Chris?"

Chris didn't move, didn't twitch, and Buck had a sudden fear that things weren't right, that some unseen menace was looming. He scanned the edge of the clearing, assessing the deepening shadows for threat. There was nothing; the normal sounds of insects and birds, seemingly unafraid of company whether human or horse.

Pony was wandering loose, munching on the new-grown leaves of a juniper bush. Buck tracked back. Pony wasn't just saddled up; he was packed. Saddlebags bulged with what had to be most of what Chris owned, or most of what he valued. Chris's bedroll, complete with quilts and oilcloth, was strapped behind the saddle, and the butt of his Winchester peeked over Pony's rump.

He was leaving.

Buck dragged in a ragged breath, his chest suddenly tight. He didn't know why he was surprised. Vin had been buried barely a week, and Chris had been sober for at least a day, now. Buck didn't suppose there was anything to keep Chris here any more. But damn, it hurt more than he expected.

He kneed his horse around, pointing him back up the hill toward Chris's shack and the distant town.

"Don't go." Chris's voice sounded rough, like a rusty hinge. "Buck."

He sat down hard in the saddle, stopping Don short, but didn't turn. Didn't look to see the expression on Chris's face. Wasn't sure he had the courage for it. Maybe it was better to wake up and find him gone, than to actually watch him go. And wasn't that something he'd rather have never learned?

"Go on, Chris," he said. "I ain't gonna stop you. You ought to know that by now." The sky was fading toward orange and red, the sun already masked behind the next ridgeline. It would be dark soon, and chilly. Buck shivered. It was cold already.

Buck started when Chris's hand fell on his thigh. He hadn't even heard him approach. "Please," Chris said. "Don't go."

Buck looked down, finally, trying to read the shadows in Chris's eyes. The fading light did him no favors, but his skin was warm where Chris's palm rested, and the rest of him so very cold.

"C'mon, stud," Chris urged. "Give me a chance, here." A tiny grin split Chris's face, his teeth white in the gathering dusk.

Saying "no" to Chris wasn't really his specialty anyway. With a low sigh, he swung down, slapping Don's rump to set him trotting over to Pony's side.

Chris took his hand then, leading him over to the tree where he'd been resting. Spreading the poncho out, he settled his back against the tree trunk, patting the space in front of him in invitation.

Almost nervously, Buck knelt and then sat, letting Chris guide him backward, until his shoulders rested easily on Chris's chest, his head rocked back on one broad shoulder. Warm, strong arms held him loosely, comfort without constraint. It was a more peaceful embrace than they were used to, maybe more than they'd ever had. Jesus, God, this is going to hurt.

Silence wasn't Buck's nature, but he couldn't seem to find any words for the current situation. "Uhh, Chris?"

Chris's breath brushed his ear, his hands held the same easy clasp. None of the normal raging, no scent of whiskey or beer gave away his emotional state. The silence stretched, as the sky faded to purple and toward black, and the crickets started up their evening chorus.

Finally, Chris cleared his throat, and started talking. Amazed, all Buck could do was listen.

"I tried, you know." One hand stroked down Buck's arm, gathering up his fingers, braiding them together. "Tried to go."

That was obvious, and barely merited a comment. Of more interest was why Chris was still here.

"Couldn't."

"I don't follow, pard." Pony was packed; there was open land in almost any direction. In the time since they'd shared morning coffee, Chris could have been thirty miles away, on his own, with no one to ask anything of him, and no responsibilities. Alone.

An edge of panic crept in to Chris's voice. "I just couldn't. I got out here; I said my goodbyes--" Chris patted their twined hands on the loose dirt that covered Vin "--and I couldn't do it."

Buck waited for the other shoe to drop. There had to be something he was missing here, some trick or trap. Chris was leaving. He'd said so. He just hadn't gone yet. Buck would be a fool to expect anything, trust anything, wish for anything beyond what they had. Even though Chris had started it. Even though Chris was the one who kept starting it. And stopping it.

"Do you ever get the feeling Sarah's watching over us?" Chris's voice was soft, musing, and unlike any tone Chris had used to discuss his family, his loss, in all the years between.

"Yeah, pard." Sometimes. "You?"

"Never." The sudden certainty surprised Buck. "Not once. Not 'til today."

Buck craned his neck, not wanting to miss what few clues he could read in the darkness. The moon wouldn't be up for hours, and with only the clear light of the stars to judge by, he wasn't sure what Chris was trying to say.

Chris's eyes were hidden in shadow, but the silent tears running down his cheeks were clear enough, if contrasting with his small smile.

Buck held his breath, wishing he had a clue what was coming. He'd never felt so off balance, so out of tune with Chris's thoughts and feelings.

"Don't have anywhere to go," Chris said softly, shaking his head.

That never stopped you before. Buck barely managed to bite off the words.

"Yeah, I know," Chris answered him anyway. Shadowed eyes flicked up, and Buck knew he was being studied, but still felt painfully out of his depth.

"Vin never left."

Buck thought of the times Tanner had nearly left them, hell, tried to leave them. But there was always an excuse, or a need, or a change in the weather to keep him bound to this place. To them.

"I was ready to ride to Texas with him that first week," Chris mused. "Would have gone any time, and he knew it."

Yeah, Vin had known; they all had. "Yeah." It was easier to acknowledge now.

"He had a dozen chances. God knows I gave him reason more than once. He's not going anywhere now." Chris's voice rang soft and clear, where Buck expected gruffness.

"Nope." Buck sighed when Chris's arms tightened around him, pulled him in closer, their hands still entwined.

"Thought maybe it was time I tried it."

Buck felt his whole body stiffen, struggling to ward off even a glimmer of hope. "Tried what?" he asked, unwilling to guess.

"Staying where I belong." Chris's voice was so strange it was barely recognizable, almost dreamy. "Maybe I didn't think it at all, though." He paused a moment, then went on. "Maybe it was her. Just got this sense of peace, sweet as Sarah kissing my cheek, and nothing else meant shit.

"Do you think that's possible?"

Yes. No. He'd give almost anything not to be having this conversation with Chris. Not now, and especially not here. "I'm thinking maybe we're both lunatics to be sitting out here in the dark, disturbing Vin's rest." He sat up, pulling out of Chris's arms, letting the cool air fill the space between them.

"Maybe," Chris conceded, and for once his voice was recognizable, the easy grin audible. "But then, we always were a little nuts." The shadow that was Chris shifted, stood. "You'd have to be to put up with me." The words were as quiet as the soft breeze, but hit with the impact of a .44.

Buck opened his mouth to deny it, and in that moment Chris leaned down, his tongue stopping all words, all thought. Buck felt Chris's hands on his face, in his hair, pulling him upward, only to ease him back, and down. Chris's body pressed along his, on his, bearing him down into the fragrant, dew-damp grass. It was too much.

It was perfect.

He wrapped his own hands around Chris's back, down to his ass, pulling him closer, knowing there was nothing that was close enough. Not even with Chris buried to the hilt in his ass would his hunger for this man be sated.

The thought, new and raw and never-before shared between them, was enough to ignite desire, heat burning in his groin, thrumming through his chest. It tingled from the tips of his toes to his tongue, already dancing with Chris's. And Chris was right there, his tight trousers doing nothing to conceal the rock-solid evidence within. They kissed until he thought he might pass out, from the sensation or the lack of breath. Finally, Chris pulled back, pressing up on his elbows to look down at Buck. The moon must have risen sometime, because now Buck could see the shining eyes, and the tuft of unruly hair that cascaded down into Chris's face.

"Don't want to go." Chris sounded almost confused, or stunned. "Don't want to leave."

Oh, lord. This wasn't Chris Larabee, saying things like that to him. It couldn't be. Maybe Buck really had lost his mind. Or Chris had.

"Don't want to leave you."

Chris started to duck his head, to turn away from the bald statement, but Buck held him, held that gaze. He tried to see deeper, to read the soul that Chris normally kept so very well hidden. He searched for trick or deception, though that had never been the way between them. He saw only clear sincerity, and a peace that he'd not seen in Chris in far too long.

"Then don't." It seemed so easy. He would have said too easy, except that with the years and tears behind them, nothing could be too easy. "Stay."

The smile that split Chris's face rivaled Buck's memory of the one he'd worn the day Adam was born. As if the whole world had just been given to him on a platter. I gave him that. Buck felt his own smile stretch his face

He tugged lightly at Chris's hair, pulling him into a gentle, almost chaste kiss. A promise.

"C'mon," he urged Chris up and off him. "Let's go home."

THE END


End file.
